


Dames in Diamonds

by AnotherIcarus



Series: Speak Easy [2]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherIcarus/pseuds/AnotherIcarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He really, honestly cannot stand Bruce Wayne and the women he brings that are dressed up in diamonds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dames in Diamonds

Bruce Wayne gave off an air of formality. Dick wasn't sure if it's a purposeful, decided air that the man's spent years intergrating into his persona, a thing he practiced in the mirror every day before he puts on the blues of GPD - or if it's a natural, effortless thing that the man only uses to his advantage. He hated it, either way. Hated Bruce Wayne, hated the shady deal they'd agreed to (blackmail, that's what it was and Dick wouldn't hesitate to call it as he saw it), and just absolutely _hated_  how Bruce could waltz into his goddamn club after his shift at the precinct, and make it his domain.

It was no accident that when Bruce entered the club, normally with a dame on his arm that's dressed in the finest glitz a woman could afford, the atmosphere changed. Where there was electricity crackling through the crowd before, there was a quiet, subdued silence. Not even a bad sort - it just got a bit moodier, a bit quieter. Half of it was his patrons knowing it's a cop - _the_  cop - that was in their midst; half of it was a quiet sort of away; respectful. He commanded attention, commanded his presence be noted. No words were ever passed, there was never once an altercation where he proved himself to  be top dog in the joint. It was just understood, and his booth - corner seat, just hidden away from view - was always kept clear just in case it's one of the nights that he's passing through.

Dick hated him. He hated him more than he hated that fucking Harvey Dent, and that was a damn hard thing to do.

Jason, his bouncer, joked that it's because Bruce is Dick's competition for winning the gals. He also joked that it's damn impressive that anyone could get Dick to hate them in so few words.

Dick normally just told him to shut up and do his job if he wanted his cut of the take-in.

He couldn't seem to decide if calling Bruce Wayne 'Bruce' would be better, or Wayne. Not that he cared what the man thought - certainly not. But with how the man had such formality to him, calling him Bruce was sure to get under his skin in the best way. Calling him properly, though - it would be denying any connection to him, put up big ol' red stop signs that all they have is business and that's all there ever will be.

It was hard trying to decide between snark and honest, clear resentment. Especially when Dick doesn't know which would bother Wayne more. For the moment, he'd decided on just Wayne. Thinking of even a sarcastically familiar tone with the dirty cop was enough to make his skin crawl.

Jason told him often that Dick paid too much attention to ol' Wayne. "If you hate him so much, why even think about him? You're just going to go grey sooner."

"You know what'll make me go grey soon? Employing _you_ , Jaybird. Stop trying to analyze me and do your damn job."

"Whatever you say, boss," was Jason's code for 'We both know I'm right'.

Dick was starting to hate a whole goddamn lot of things. It was Wayne's fault, of course. He was the most laidback guy before Wayne strolled into his life.

Wayne had brought in the same girl three times this week. It was bothering Dick something fierce when the man normally changed dames like Dick changed ties. The dame was gorgeous of course - when you've got the reputation and looks like Wayne did, it was no big feat to attract the real lookers. Not that Dick cared, really. He just wanted to know who the hell this woman was and why she was so damn special.

Wayne normally would scan the club with interest while he was with his date of the night. Lips paused over the brim of his cup - always a weaker drink, as if Wayne was waiting for something to happen and didn't want to be drop dead drunk when it did - he would take in the scene, always finally coming to be focused on the singer. He was only half-listening to whatever his date was saying. Dick got the impression he was the love 'em and leave 'em type, and every single girl that came in with him was younger, just fresh on the society scene and full of hope and wonder and but-I-can-change-him.

They never did, and Dick never saw them again. Sometimes he would wish that he'd just waltz up to the table and sweep the dame up for himself - steal her from Wayne and show her what a real man could do for her. He never did, though. He might have hated Wayne something fierce but he know when to toe the tentative line drawn between them. Wayne had the upper hand, and Dick didn't intend on making the man remind him.

So he always ended up watching the tipsy little girl, can't-be-more-than-twenty girl cling onto Wayne's arm, giggling and slurring speech with non-words as they filed out of the club at closing time.

This one was different though. She always had some cat print stole around her shoulders, hair stylishly twisted into a bun more like Audrey Hepburn than any of the flapper sort of women Wayne normally brought in. Really, everything about her screamed high society broad, instead of go-getter gold digger.

Maybe it was an affair. Dick wouldn't put it past a sleazy cop to be an affair sort of man, too. Promised the lady protection, safety - maybe she had an abusive hubby, one that Wayne promised to protect her from if things got too hairy.

Bastard paid attention to her all night, eyes fixed on her and only straying momentarily to look over the club. It was more unnerving than his normal constant vigilance.

He still only drank the weak stuff, though. Took it shaken, too. Pansy. Dick would be willing to wager he could drink the man under the table.

She would laugh, incline her head just briefly and murmur something a bit more quietly - it was always too loud in the club to drop eaves really, even though Dick time and time again urged everyone to keep the volume lowkey to avoid any trouble with the brass. But this was _really_  quiet - the sort of talking that meant shared secrets.

Another point in line for an affair. Slimy bastard.

He'd chuckle, a low, genuine thing that carried across the club so much clearer than his loud, booming one that normally came out with the other dames.

Not that Dick paid too much attention to that.

Not that his head would snap up at that chuckle.

He wanted to pop the clown right across the jaw. Give him really something to look out for.

Dick didn't have control over his own bar.

"Maybe if we leave early tonight-" the woman starts offering, a slow smile dancing brilliantly across her lips as if it's just another diamond necklace. She's stunning - aside from the stole, the jewelry, the woman dresses a lot more understated than Wayne's normal sort. Like she doesn't want to draw any memorable attento to herself.

Another point for abusive hubby, another point for an affair.

"Of course, Ms. Kyle," Wayne replies dutifully, a small smile of his own - it's the real damn thing, and Dick hated himself for being able to tell the difference. From the fake, sleazy grin that Wayne would give him the few times they chatted to keep current on the deal - another thing Dick was sure the bastard practiced in the mirror, to this warm, but guarded little number that he'd only seen the man give to this dame.

Kyle, huh? He'd have to look into that name. Not like Dick really cared who Wayne did the dirty with. Hell, he didn't really care who his own employees slept with - why would he care about some two-bit dirty cop and his one night stands?

This was no one night stand though. They hung around too much - their gazes lingered too damn much, and there was hardly space to breathe between them, the way they pressed shoulder to thigh together, heads ducked inward like schoolkids sharing some intimate secret.

He clenched his fist a bit on the bar where he had been perched, watching the proceedings. There was paperwork in the back, in his office, just waiting to be done. Books to balance, money to start counting out and divvying up for his few employees.

He didn't budge.

Wayne chuckled again, swirled the ice idly in his now empty tumbler. Dick's blood boiled just a little more intensely.

"Oh, darling, please!" Kyle - whoever she was, the name didn't ring a bell but that wasn't odd at all. High society attended his nameless little club, but just because of that didn't mean that all high society did. Didn't mean he knew the names of every single money-dropper in the room - laughed, voice clear and loud and it really did rise above the general murmur of the crowd. She reached out with one carefully manicured hand (DID MANICURES EXIST BACK THEN), shoved his shoulder lightly.

Wayne allowed that to sway his body away, but brought it right back in.

Dick was going insane. Before he realized he'd slid off the bar at all, he was halfway across the floor, striding with a purpose and two clenched fists. Damn him, damn everything he stood for and everything he wanted. Isley had stopped attending on her typical Sunday nights - Dick could only assume he'd played a part, that Wayne and his terrible fucking blackmail of a plan was responsible. Quinn had been quiet all night, which was damn weird for the blonde.

"Yes, Mr. Grayson? Did you need something?" The cop said, smooth as butter, looking up at him-

and Dick let his fist go, cracking a good one clear across Wayne's jaw. The man's head snapped to the side, Kyle - damn her too, Dick decided, his mind suddenly not his own but some rage induced haze - shrieked and stood, and the club went silent as a grave.

"Out," Dick said, and was amazed at how level his voice was for how tense and heavy and hot he felt. He could take the whole precinct on, damn Bruce Wayne to hell. "I want you and your dirty little tramp outta my bar, Wayne!"

"How _dare_  you!" Kyle was on her feet now, knuckles white on the tabletop. Her stole had slipped from her shoulders, laid crumpled on her vacated seat. "What on earth-"

Wayne placed a hand on her arm. It was ever respectful, even as he rubbed what was gonna be one hell of a bruise later with his other hand. "Selina."

"Bruce, are you really just gonna-"

"Selina, really. Please, sit down. Finish your drink." Bruce hadn't moved his eyes - blue, so damn blue and damn him, _damn_  him - from Dick, who stood trembling and breathing hard at the head of their booth.

Dick's fist was starting to ache now - bastard had one hell of an iron jaw, that was for certain - and he couldn't catch his breath. Room felt too damn small - they were underground, course they were - and the air thick with smoke was too damn heavy. He couldn't breathe like he needed to, just wanted to take Wayne out back and kiss his ass all the way to Bludhaven.

Selina looked between the two of them - Wayne an immovable object, Dick an unstoppable force - and sighed. She sat and gulped down the rest of her martini. "Fine. If you think for a second though, Mr. Grayson-" she pointed one fine claw at him. Dick realized he'd been wrong to call her a tramp - she was some alley cat, really.

"Selina. Order another martini, put it on my tab if you like," Bruce still hadn't removed his hand from her arm, but now it slid off as he started to stand. "I think Mr. Grayson and I need a little talk." He was unruffled. Completely, truly untouched by Dick's little explosion.

Dick's hatred of the man was only justified, he decided. "I don't want to talk, I want you and your dame out of here." A growl, then, because Wayne wasn't worth a raised voice.

"Your office, now, Mr. Grayson." Wayne said firmly.

There was still silence in the club - it was like everyone present realized just how bad it was that their normally good-natured host was acting like a hulking, stupid thug. Dick could at least admit just how true that was. Just about all Dick heard that wasn't silence or spoke word was a low, harsh ringing in his ear. It only made him more irritable.

Still, some manner of sanity was returning to him, and he bit off a one-word reply. "Fine."

He took a few staggering steps away from the table, took a deep breath, and turned on his heel. He passed by his snickering bouncer, and made sure to stamp on Todd's toes as he went. The bouncer hissed but didn't react. Dick was aware of Wayne following right behind him, keeping close, and as they cleared the hallway to get to his office, he heard tentative whispers start up, only to be masked by the band striking back up. The club was not to be denied their good time just because their host was in a foul mood.

The sound was immediately dulled as he opened the door to his office and stepped inside, leaving the door open for Bruce to follow through. "What did you wanna say you couldn't just say out there?" He mumbled, rubbing his forehead. Being alone with the guy he had just sucker punched was not really Dick's idea of a good time.

He heard the slow click of the door, turned to look at Wayne - waiting for some answer, hopefully one that wouldn't leave him aching to just punch him harder. 

Instead he gets a fist planted into his gut and he's bent over and winded in an instant. He coughs, chokes, arms wrapped around his stomach and trying to get some grip on the fact that that just happened.

And then Wayne decides to utterly wreck any pride Dick might have had left, and grabs his upper arm and forces him up against the door. There's no mistaking the force he's using now - and maybe Dick should just be happy this is happening in the privacy of his own office.

"What are you playing at, Grayson?" Wayne growls, watching him while Dick is still struggling for breath.

A cough, another. Dick is still trying to get a second wind. "I'm just sick of you and your dame showing up in my goddamn club."

The grip on his arms squeezed, tightened, and for a moment, Dick wondered if Wayne would try to honestly shove him through his own office door.

"Well, too bad, Mr. Grayson," and just like that, any danger the cop presented was understated, quiet and more terrifying than anything the man could do while sounding angry. He leaned in, and invaded Dick's space. Close enough to kiss, to bite, to tear and- "I own you, and don't you forget that."

Dick wanted to argue. He really did. But with one call to the precinct, with one snap of Bruce Wayne's fingers, the club could be crawling with cops and they both knew it. Dick resolutely shut his mouth, clenched his jaw. Asshole cop, really. He hated him.

Except the asshole was somehow starting to impress him. Dick didn't want to look at _that_  too closely.

"Now, you were rather rude to my friend."

"Your latest fling, you mean. Please, Wayne, girls like that are a dime a dozen." Dick didn't know when to quit. He really didn't and maybe this was a good thing. Better than putting up and shutting up about this whole set up.

It actually made Wayne falter a bit, and Dick narrowed his eyes to watch him. "Selina is different," he said. It was only a brief loss of track and he found where he had been going, nearly immediately. "I want a cut of tonight's profits to make up for you acting up, Grayson."

"A _cut_ \- are you _kidding_  me?" Now it was Dick's turn to falter. Wayne had let go of his arms, backed off, and started to look around the office. He did, every time they came back to discuss their business deal. It was like he was hoping to find out something about Dick.

"No jokes here. Well, aside from you, Grayson." The cop wouldn't look at him. "Give me a cut or you'll be nursing a shiner instead."

That got Dick moving. His fist still stung, and he didn't want to find out what that cop's fist could do to his own face. Maybe some other time, maybe when he wasn't off kilter from drink and anger and some inborn sense of theat. Yeah, some other time, he'd like to wipe the walls with Wayne - see what sort of damage the two of them could do.

Not tonight.

He sorted out a cut of the money, and shoved it into Wayne's waiting hand. "You're a right bastard," he informed him, and Wayne chuckled

"Yeah, you know, I hear that a lot. Maybe you'll come to appreciate it if you'd stop acting like I'm your enemy." He slipped the wad of cash into his coat pocket, sure to be present to Selina Kyle later - maybe in the form of another diamond if Dick had to guess.

He didn't want to know.

"Yeah, right. Just get out of my office," Dick grumbled, rubbing his stomach. "And clear out for the night. After this, you sticking around'll just keep people talking less and my ears won't pick up anything for you."

Bruce chuckled again - Bruce, the name offered itself in Dick's head and he didn't want to think of why that was - and headed for the door. "Noted. I'll need to see Miss Kyle home soon, regardless."

"Yeah, you do that."

Dick hated the bastard.


End file.
